


She Said She Wants to Bleed

by thisplace_ishaunted



Category: Motionless in White (Band)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied Necrophilia, Infidelity, Other, PLEASE MIND THE TAGS AND PROCEED WITH CARE, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation, Torture, technically murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:08:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22973815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisplace_ishaunted/pseuds/thisplace_ishaunted
Summary: Chris cuts you up, but with, like, love or something.   ‾\_(ツ)_/‾
Relationships: Chris "Motionless" Cerulli/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	She Said She Wants to Bleed

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Neckfreak](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21791770) by [dysphorie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysphorie/pseuds/dysphorie). 



> Big oof time bois.  
> PLEASE MIND THE TAGS. If you think this is going to affect you negatively, please do not proceed.
> 
> This is directly based on Count Choculitis, and roughly on the Puppets trilogy and Dark Passenger/Dexter.
> 
> This started off pretty easy (and cathartic) for me to write, but ended up getting more and more difficult as I continued. If it seems short or ends abruptly, it is because I kind of decided to abandon any attempt to continue.

**_“How do you forgive the unforgivable?”_**  
He had drugged you, slipped something into your morning coffee, or maybe your water bottle. Your head had spun and spun, and before you could go find a place to sit, you collapsed. Knees hitting the floor, then your hip, and finally your head. The sound of your fall could be heard from the next room over where he was sitting, patiently waiting to hear the result of his sleight of hand. Chris sighs, and stands, brushing off the front of his pants.  
It wasn’t too hard for Chris to pick you up, throw you over his shoulder, and carry you into the living room. He laid out painting tarps he had bought at the hardware store, covering the carpet, the furniture, and most carefully, the chair he had planned to sit you in, to tie you to.  
Closing the blinds to the front windows of the house, he turns to face you. Although you are slowly regaining consciousness, your head is still slumped forward, chin to chest. A filthy rag is tied from your mouth to the back of your head. The rope Chris had bought, purposefully at a different store as to not raise suspicion, was used to bind your chest to the back of the upright chair, your legs spread and tied down the two front chair legs.  
Your first thought is that you are stuck, tied up, unable to move. Eyes fluttering, you see before you feel that you are bare underneath these ties. The tarp is hot and sticky where it comes into contact with your skin.  
You try to lift your head, but it is so heavy, the effort is exhausting. You wiggle your fingers, but your movement is limited. Looking further, your eyes can start focusing again. Chris stands before you, his face practically blank, emotionless.  
This is the face you know better than your own. In the past six years, your relationship had long since left the phase of butterflies and nervous jitters. Grocery shopping, morning coffee, discussion of a wedding, these were the things that had replaced the nerves and excitement of a new relationship. Beauty in the everyday, the normal. Chris has been your comfort, especially when you had come home anxious and angry from work. He could take your mind off of your stresses so easily. He knew the ways of your heart; he knew your soul inside and out, your body inside and out. Six years will do that to you.  
So why did you do what you did? Convenience? Drunkenness? You can’t blame the latter. It was prenegotiated, discussed, lusted over. It was sick, really, how easy it was for you to turn away from him. Maybe you were scared of the commitment. You were scared that you weren’t ready.  
So you fucked your coworker? Them? Really? Of all people. You really threw away everything you had built with Chris for a lay? And a shitty one at that. It wasn’t the sex that angered Chris so deeply to his bones, it was the betrayal.  


**_“There's evil in my veins.”_**  
“Y/N,” Chris says suddenly. His voice is too loud for your aching head.  
Your breath quickens, and the rag is rubbing the sides of your mouth raw. It is like there is sand in your mouth. Your throat is itchy, sounds barely come out.  
“I know… you’ve known… this was coming.”  
Chris pulls a small box of safety razor blades out from the pocket of his jeans. You were unfortunately familiar with these types of razors. You had stolen them from your father as a teen, locked yourself in the bathroom, done the types of things people do with razors in bathrooms.  
The scars that spotted around your forearms and thighs had nearly faded away with the years, but they were still visible. Chris knew your body, he knew your scars, he knew that you still experience the dull ache from time to time.  
You had become so happy with Chris, this ache had nearly faded along with the physical evidence, until you had fucked up. Until you had made the worst kind of mistake.  
As much as you were happy with Chris, you were scared of him. His obsessive interest in slasher movies, thick horror novels with pages upon pages of gore. You noted how he would stare at the kitchen knife for too long while preparing dinner. You noted how he scratched your back up during sex, just so he could see the marks on your skin the next day. Maybe that is why you had done it: regretting you had overlooked these things for so long, and now it was too late to run.  
Of course he has figured it out. You had been acting strangely lately. Taking too long, too hot of showers. Mindlessly staring at your scars and letting your mind wander back to that place. Instead of being concerned, instead of asking what was wrong, Chris had put together that you were feeling guilty. The rest had been easy to figure out.  
You had fucked up, and you were stuck. For the first time in years that ache had become too much, this time in the form of guilt. Guilt for existing, guilt for being alive, guilt for taking up space.  
“I got a whole new box for you… just for you.” Chris tears off the tape and opens the small cardboard box, removing one of the paper wrapped razors.  
“There’s even six of these in here. Do you think we’ll need that many?”  
Your eyes are wide and are on him, watching as he fiddles with the flimsy, shiny piece of metal. He flips it between his fingertips.  


**_“She says she wants to bleed.”_**  
Chris knows what you had been longing to do to yourself again. The urge for self destruction. The urge for self mutilation. These all too familiar feelings had sunken back into your mind. They take up all your time, really. It takes so much effort to hate yourself. Desperate to make the outside match the inside… to show your guilt… maybe, then, he would love you again.  
He doesn’t care about how you have been feeling. He doesn’t want to help. You had thrown away any deserving of real help when you had betrayed him so flippantly, so carelessly. He doesn’t give a shit anymore if you are scared of him.  
Chris moves forward with two slow steps and straddles you. His weight painfully crushes your thighs. Normally you would be the one to straddle him, not the other way around.  
His forehead leans on yours, his exhales close and hot in your face.  
Even with your hazy thinking, you can tell where this is going. That ache, that longing, that part of your chest that swells with pain, it is all coming to a head. You don’t need him to tell you twice, you deserve this and you know it. You have known it since you were a kid. You were a fuck-up who deserved to suffer. You destroyed your relationship with the only person who still managed to love you.  
“If you can’t do it yourself, I can do it for you, you know,” he whispers into your face. The same kind whisper that would remind you that he loved you as you both would drift off to sleep.  
“I can hurt you… I’ll do it for you… I’ll do an even better job than you ever could. I’ll keep going even when you would stop.”  
You’re scared, but you nod ever so slightly. You open your eyes and see Chris with his head cocked, blinking. His face is still emotionless, as if this situation is so straight forward. You fucked up, you pay. It just so happens that you know you deserve it and you won’t fight back. You’re making this so easy for him.  


**_“The worst part is showing you all the damage that you've caused.”_**  
Chris places a warm, kind hand on your cheek. All the same feelings of comfort and love come rushing back. It is making this way worse than you were ready for. Of course he is going to do it with love, with care, with all the tenderness. You don’t even deserve it, and yet he is still treating you with kindness.  
The edge of the thin blade horizontally scrapes up the length of your left bicep. As much as you are going to feel this, you can’t bear to watch just yet. While your head is leaned into Chris’ palm, you watch as his soft eyes follow the blade he is scraping up your arm. Of course he is teasing you with it, why wouldn’t he? The beautiful curves of his jaw, his lips slightly parted, he is looking at you nearly with lust.  
“Just do it already, Chris. Just do it.” You can’t speak these words that fill your head, so instead you close your eyes, turn your face into his hand, and nod again.  
Chris makes the first slice on your upper bicep, long and slow. That sting… that icy cold fire that radiates from the area… It brings back all of what you had experienced before. It is the same sensation, but this time it is paired with an even greater sense of overwhelming release.  
In quick succession, he continues to make parallel cuts down the length of your upper arm. Your face still leans into his hand, his long fingers are now wet with your tears. You aren’t sure why you are crying. It hurts, but it is more of a thought than an actual feeling. Headspace is a strange thing.  
He had nearly covered your left upper arm with these matching slices. The blood had not only pooled to the surface of the cuts in droplets, but was beginning to run downward into one another, creating tiny streams of red.  
“I have to show you what you have done to me. I have to show you… I need you to know this pain.” Chris brings his lips to your ear, still whispering. He sets the wet blade down on top of his thigh and unexpectedly scrapes his nails down the row of cuts.  
Pain so overwhelming shoots through the rest of your body, throwing you out of your protective headspace. A muffled scream attempts to escape past the rag in your mouth.  
“Don’t forget why we’re here, Y/N…” Chris stands, your thighs and knees feeling relief from the removal of his body weight. “…what you have done to make me do this for you.”  


**_“You must realize that someday you will die and until then you are worthless”_**  
His tone has changed. The energy in the room is suddenly tense and anxious. The sweet caress of his hand is gone and you wish it back more than anything. You need him to walk you through this. You need his direction, his sweet words, the comfort and care to get through the torturous inflictions. You can’t believe you are so weak that you can’t even hurt yourself right.  
You nearly laugh at how worthless you are.  
You know what this has to conclude with. Your mutilation and suffering will never be enough for Chris. It just has to keep going until you’re not anymore. He has to know your regret, that you would do anything to show him that you belong to him.  
“You wouldn’t want me to stop now, do you? We just got started.” Chris squats in front of you, between your tied legs. With the same hand that so sweetly caressed your face, he reaches up and grabs at your neck. In one fluid motion he shoves your head as far back as it will go and digs the blade into the fleshy part of your thigh. He just… keeps…. pushing it down further and further into your leg. Blood immediately comes spurting out, nearly spraying up onto his slender fingers.  
This exquisite pain, this beautiful pain, is like no other. It is like Chris is butchering you just so he can push his love further into you. He is literally killing you with kindness, with his love. This is the ultimate gift from him to you.  
Real sobs start to escape from your throat against Chris’ hand. Your eyes blink away tears as you stare at the ceiling. Your vision is growing dim and dark. You aren’t sure if it is from the pain, or the blood loss, or just because your body wants to get it over with already.  
Chris does the same sort of digging with the razor down the length of your left thigh, before moving onto the right. The process is the same each time: dig, push, twist…. until your thighs are spotted with numerous gashes. The blood pools around the fatty white adipose tissue and spills off of your legs. The tarps below you are being put to good use, the carpet would have otherwise been left a shameful mess.  


**_“The quickest way to the heart is to cut right through the chest.”_**  
You slip in and out of consciousness as he continues to stripe the rest of your body with cuts, up and down the lengths of the rest of your arms, between where the ropes held your frame to the chair. The blood pulses out of your body as your heart continues to weakly pump. You were loosing so much blood at this point, it nearly had nothing to work with.  
Not all of the gashes were deep, Chris had decided to mix it up and mark your neck and upper chest with light etches, just enough to break the skin. The vertical parallel lines ran from your clavicles to your chest, the bulbs of bright, surface level blood sitting for a while before they fell downwards.  
Look at you! Gorgeous and slick and red as can be. Chris has never loved you so much… you are finally marked up as his. There is no question now.  
“We can’t let anyone forget what a fuck up you are. But this is your punishment. You know you belong to me, right?” Chris carves a large letter “A”, deep into the right side of your chest. It is almost too fitting.  


**_“How could you kill that which has no life?”_**  
Chris had spent the last hour quietly digging in the dense forest on the other side of town. The time of night had lent itself to a darkness that was necessary for such tasks. This was the time of night that fog starts to form.  
He had heaved your body into the pit he had dug. The same tarps that had protected the house from the splatters of your blood were now encasing what was left of your torn up form. You didn’t even look like yourself anymore.  
Chris picked up his shovel once again and began tossing the wet dirt onto your wrapped body. With every shovel of dirt, a memory returned to his mind of you. Your sweet curves, the moans that had passionately escaped your lips with every thrust of his hips as he fucked you. You had nearly made the same sounds as he had carved you up. Deep, guttural moans and groans of pain and pleasure. Too bad for him, the rag in your mouth had kept you from screaming his name… that would have been nice.  
He couldn’t bear to say goodbye just yet. It wasn’t too late, he had only covered you with about an inch of soil at this point. He didn’t even think twice before jumping into the pit and pushing the soil off of your wrapped body. Even in death, you belonged to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Idk why but I made a small moodboard for this  
> https://bit.ly/2PBtBk4


End file.
